


Involuntary Celibacy

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vortex's (very bad) reputation means that he's finding it incredibly difficult to get laid. Onslaught helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Involuntary Celibacy

“You got no idea what it’s like!” Vortex yelled. He paced Onslaught’s office, his visor blazing and every cable tense. “It’s been so long I think the hinges rusted shut!”

Onslaught leaned back on his chair, fingers steepled below his mask. “Allow me to hazard a guess,” he said. “You can measure the time since you last interfaced in solar cycles rather than joors.”

Vortex glared. “Ha fraggin’ ha. Yeah, very funny. You know I was in repairs last cycle?”

Onslaught nodded; that had indeed come to his attention.

“You know why?” Vortex said, his tone giving Onslaught the opinion that he would really rather not.

“No.”

“Breakdown.” Vortex snarled.

“Breakdown,” Onslaught said, “is a name, not an explanation.”

Vortex’s rotors flexed, the metal twanging. “All I did was ask him if he wanted to go somewhere, y’know, have some fun. Slagger made his engine go all weird and my arm fell off. I mean, what the frag? My entire arm! It just… I dunno. You ever have to carry your own arm to Hook for re-attachment? It ain’t fun.”

Onslaught vented a sigh. “That was not in the report,” he commented.

“Yeah, well, it wouldn't be. So then Motormaster shows up, and he’s all up in my visor about Breakdown. And he’s all big and stuff, and… _big_ , y’know, with those bouncy tires and that head-guard thing and... big.” Vortex’s voice took on a more wistful aspect, before he returned to his indignant rant. “So I asked him if he’d ‘face with me. _Asked_ , not like told him to frag me or something, and you know what he did?”

“He put you through the wall,” Onslaught replied. That, at least, had been in the report.

“Fragger put me through the wall!” Vortex echoed, having apparently tuned Onslaught out.

Onslaught couldn’t help but ask, “And?”

“And so I went and asked Dead End.” Vortex said. “And he was all like ‘What’s the point in resisting, we all die sooner or later. Just try not to scuff my bodywork’.” The copter shuddered.

“So, did you?”

“Slag no!” Vortex didn’t just sound annoyed, he sounded offended. “Mech’s not into it, he’s not into it. Just thinkin’ about it makes me wanna weld my hatch shut. I mean ugh! What the frag is it with this ship? Don’t people interface for fun any more?”

They certainly did in Onslaught’s experience, and rumour had it that Vortex had been less than choosy and more than aggressive in taking his share. But rumour didn’t gel with the degree to which Vortex had got himself worked up. “Have you asked Blast Off?” Onslaught said.

“Oh yeah, like he’s gonna condescend to _that_.” Vortex huffed. “Every time I try, he always has something else to do. I commed Swindle, but he was too busy; Brawl doesn’t get the whole rotary thing, and you’re like this high and mighty commander not allowed to frag the troops or something. I even asked that Aerialbot, the crazy one with the black wings.”

“Please tell me you didn’t interface with him,” Onslaught said.

“Of course I didn’t!” Vortex cried.

“Because that would be fraternisation,” Onslaught prompted. “And is against military law.”

“Because he shot at me and flew away!”

“Thank Primus for small mercies,” Onslaught said.

“Oh yeah?” Vortex’s engine revved, a warning growl to go with the whine of his weapons. His fists hit Onslaught’s desk with a savage thud, and he loomed, his optics wide. “You think this is funny? I’ve tried everything. _Everything_. I asked nicely, I tried flirting, I tried hinting, I tried that straightforward scrap, I tried high grade, I even paid Rumble to hack into Hook’s files and tell me who’s got a thing for rotaries.”

Onslaught gaped; this was a long way from what he’d expected.

“Scrapload of good that did,” Vortex snapped. “Reflector went into camera mode and wouldn’t come out, and Ramjet got all jittery when I asked him. Said he didn’t think he was built for that kind of thing, and then his trine turned up and stared at me till I left. What does that even _mean_ , ‘not built for that kind of thing’? _What_ kind of thing?” Vortex sighed, his shoulders drooping and his rotors hanging still. He shook his head, and when he spoke again the tension in his voice had morphed into a terse bitterness. “Go on and laugh. Just ‘cause I used to get all the action back in Kaon, right? It’s so fraggin’ hilarious that the copter ain’t getting any now.”

“I’m not laughing,” Onslaught said, although it was a close call.

“Yeah, whatever.” Vortex sulked over to the door, and slapped his palm on the ‘open’ button. “Dunno why Starscream bothered to build in the hardware. Not like I’ll ever have a chance to use it.”

The laughter died in Onslaught’s vocal processors. Never? “You mean, you haven’t,” he began, but Vortex had already left.

* * *

It didn’t take Onslaught long to discover the cause of Vortex’s involuntary celibacy. It was the rumours – assumptions heaped upon hearsay, and none of it true. But it kept mechs from getting too close, afraid they’d end up in pieces, or the smelter.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Onslaught sent the question as text, set to appear on Vortex’s HUD. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself to speak. While he waited for a response, he called up Soundwave’s network of security cameras – those that he had access to – and ran through the screens until he found the interrogator.

Delta armoury, bent over a box of ammunition.

‘I did.” The reply was brief, and accompanied by a quick flick of Vortex’s rotors.

‘You didn’t tell me you hadn’t used it at all,’ Onslaught wrote. On the monitor, Vortex froze.

‘Didn’t think I had to,’ he responded. ‘Thought you knew.’

Of course he didn’t know. If he’d known, he would have had Vortex over his desk soon as the mech had stormed into his office. Just the thought of that hardware, pristine and new and never tested, it made his heat sinks roar and his spike thud against the inside of its cover. But he hadn’t known.

And Vortex appeared to be genuinely unhappy.

As his commander, Onslaught concluded that he should do something about that. After a moment’s thought, he wrote, ‘Report to my quarters, one joor,” then turned the monitor off.

* * *

It took half a breem to re-arrange both their shift patterns, and a while longer to move the delicate objects in his recharge chamber onto the lower shelves. There was no substitute for preparation, especially where Vortex was concerned.

Then waiting. Onslaught wasn’t sure where the rumours came from. Blitzwing, possibly. He had a long memory for gossip, and the Stunticons seemed ready to believe anything that pandered to their individual quirks and neuroses.

But still, the idea that Vortex hadn’t got laid at all. Not even once since being rebuilt. It was a little difficult to process.

Two breems early, Onslaught’s door thudded. Trust Vortex to kick it rather than use the intercom. //You gonna let me in or what?//

//You’re early,// Onslaught replied, but that suited him just fine.

//Can’t I be early for something? Frag.//

Onslaught drew in a long, slow vent, and unlocked the door. “You’re never early,” he commented. Vortex shrugged and held out two small cubes of high grade.

“Bribery and corruption?” he suggested. His mask was off, his expression hopeful. And his rotors moved in a way that made Onslaught’s palms itch.

“Put those down before they explode,” Onslaught said. The door hissed shut, the lock engaging automatically.

“Eh.” Vortex shrugged, some of the optimism draining from his smile. He shoved the cubes onto a shelf. “Hey, why’s all your stuff down there?”

“Shut up,” Onslaught said, and grabbed Vortex by the rotor hub. The effect was immediate. Vortex relaxed, his shoulders slumping and a long sigh escaping his vents. He leaned back, and Onslaught tugged, dragging him away from the shelves. “On the bunk,” Onslaught snarled. It was an effort not to shove him against the wall and force his hatch open. But that would be a waste of new hardware.

And besides, Vortex was on the bunk in a fraction of an astrosecond. Onslaught didn’t think he’d ever seen him move so fast.

“Lay down,” Onslaught said. There was a click and a whirr as Vortex obeyed, his rotor hub fitting flush to his back. Onslaught leaned over him, his fingers brushing against the very tip of one of Vortex’s rotors. Vortex opened his mouth to speak. “No talking,” Onslaught reminded him, and he shut it again.

“Nice view,” Onslaught commented. Still teasing the rotortip, he took his free hand on a tour of Vortex’s thighs. Smooth planes, good angles. Not as fine as his Cybertronian form, but good enough. “Raise your knee.” Again, Vortex obeyed, and this time he didn’t try to speak. Good. Onslaught traced the seam on the inside of Vortex’s thigh, listening for the change in ventilation the closer his fingers got to that pristine, unused equipment.

Vortex whimpered, vents hitching and his rotortip vibrating against the bunk. His armour warmed, his optics dimmed. His hips bucked, but Onslaught moved his hand out of the way.

“Not so fast,” he said, and Vortex’s frustrated huff was music to his audials.

The rotary squirmed, panting now, his vocaliser giving out a high keening whine. So very needy, and so very gratifying that this little stimulation could produce such a response.

Onslaught’s spike ached, his fans on maximum and air roaring through his vents. He had to force himself to maintain the same, slow steady pace. “Raise your other knee,” he said, his voice clouded by static. Every impulse told him to go quicker, be rougher, take what he wanted without thought or pause. But resisting those urges was part of the appeal, and only made his charge rise faster.

He climbed onto the bunk and eased Vortex’s legs apart. “Hands above your head,” he commanded, and Vortex nodded, raising his arms. “Good.”

Vortex trembled, gripping the top-edge of the bunk, and Onslaught slowed. He ran his hands along the tops of Vortex’s thighs and over the sides of his pelvic armour. It truly was a wonderful view; there was something about that paintjob, the blocks of teal on grey. same teal as his own paintwork. Small signifier of his authority.

Onslaught continued his tactile exploration, each surface a different texture, each plane of matt grey paint alive with the buzz of his interrogator’s energy field.

“Please!” Vortex moaned, and Onslaught lunged, pressing down on his shoulders, grinding the flanges of his pelvic armour over Vortex’s spike cover.

“No. Talking,” he growled, as paint sheared away and metal squealed.

“Mmmm!” Vortex writhed, bucking up, trying to increase the contact. But Onslaught leant back again, and pushed down this time on Vortex’s hips.

“Keep still,” he said, and grinned as Vortex tried to do exactly that. But it must have been hard, with Onslaught’s glossa tracing the new grooves in his paintwork, the slight scratches in the bared metal. The heat was astounding. Onslaught pressed his palm against the cover. “Open up,” he said, then, “Just this one,” as all of Vortex’s covers threatened to draw back at once.

Vortex bucked again, the edge of the bunk screeching as he dug his fingers in. His spike emerged, slick and ready, and Onslaught took it firmly in hand.

“Oh frag ohfragohfrag!” Vortex howled, and this time Onslaught didn’t bother to tell him to keep quiet. He leaned forward again, meeting the bright gleam of Vortex’s optics, and began to manipulate the copter’s spike. The effect was immediate: the growing warmth, the tingle of charge, and the delicious tremors which ran through Vortex’s amour at each slow stroke and made his equipment thrum in Onslaught’s hand.

It was no surprise he didn’t last; he threw back his head, his lips parted as his vocaliser screamed static and he came hard over his own plating.

Onslaught grinned wider, and smeared a little trail of silver down to the cover of Vortex’s valve. The armour steamed, so very hot, and so very tempting. Onslaught’s spike strained at its housing, and his limbs felt momentarily weak with anticipation.

“Open,” he managed, forcing the word through a haze of charge. Vortex clung tighter to the edge of the bunk, so tense that his hatch drew back awkwardly. Onslaught freed his own spike, shuddering at the prickle of warm air against the nodes.

There was no need to check that Vortex was ready. The hardware might be new, but the copter understood exactly what he was doing.

Although that didn’t preclude a little teasing. “You want this?” Onslaught whispered.

“Uhuh!” Vortex tilted his hips, straining to get their hardware to meet.

“Really?” Onslaught said.

Vortex bit his lip, his back arched and spike stiffening again. “Nnng!” He nodded furiously, but somehow, amazingly, managed to keep his hands above his head and his vocaliser from forming words.

Onslaught pressed forward, unable to stifle a moan as the tip of his spike nudged the rim of Vortex’s valve. Energon surged as his fuel pumps raced, but he held back a moment longer, enjoying the naked desire written in every aspect of Vortex’s expression, of his tense grey frame and vibrating tail rotors. Enjoying Vortex laid out for him, obedient, needy and – even if only barely – controlled.

It was quite a sight. And quite an experience as Onslaught pushed slowly inside him. The delicate arrangement of metal parts gave – gradually, incrementally – the valve stretching to accommodate him. Vortex groaned, still for a moment as Onslaught began to thrust, slowly at first, then faster as Vortex’s ventilation failed and his valve constricted. So unbelievably tight, but slick and yielding too. And so very charged.

Onslaught hooked an arm under Vortex’s thigh, better leverage to spread his legs. And a better angle, deeper, more satisfying. Vortex moaned, thrusting up, matching the rhythm Onslaught chose, as his energy field hummed and his transformation seams lit up with a mosaic of tiny sparks.

Vortex came suddenly, his valve clamping on Onslaught’s spike, an overwhelming rush of current sweeping through them both. Onslaught held on, fingers digging into Vortex’s hips. He thrust harder, riding out the peak, resisting his own climax for as long as he possibly could.

But that new hardware, so tight and eager and pristine, it eventually became too much. His overload was exactly what he had hoped for, an overwhelming force of charge, crackling through his sensor net, blanking his optics, his audials, sending his processor spinning out of control for one dizzying moment.

He slumped over Vortex, still inside him, the copter’s spike hard between the flanges of his pelvic armour.

Vortex squirmed, his valve clenching as the little ripples of aftershock passed through them both. “Mmmmmm,” he sighed. “You got no idea how much I needed that.”

Onslaught grinned, and revved his engine hard; Vortex’s optics flickered. He leaned up on one elbow and ran his free hand along Vortex’s outstretched arms. “You need more than that,” he said. “Get on your knees.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in response to a prompt on the TF kinkmeme. It kicked my butt solidly for months before I could get the words to flow. But eh, it taught me to persevere, because apparently I can actually write the porn that I thought I couldn't. Sometimes :)


End file.
